I'm trouble, Miss. How do you like your troublesome
Boy with eyes of dusk, occult crafts and words of light?
I'm trouble, pain, antithesis, oxymoron, paradox and the low
Rhyme a breeze whispered in high-winter. I'm a fight
In gray halls, broken silence, a mountain in reverse
Hustling leaves, bitting cold, insanity in a verse.
I'm trouble, Mistress. How do you like your volatile, ethereal
Boy gliding through lamp-lit streets, flickering like a flame in a candle?
I'm trouble, Madam. Born out of chaos, raised in desolate,
Hidden light... words falter and waves crash—
And I know, madam. It's getting late, sorry for the trouble, I know it's late.
And she as always, sounded gentle, gleeful, kind, piercing, harsh
When she said: " Trouble you may be, and dark sure you are
But never I saw more lofty vision, more radiant light than when you're bare.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem